


Normalcy

by catherinekenc



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherinekenc/pseuds/catherinekenc
Summary: "Jane Davis never really loses her ability to speak. It’s something you get over when you’ve continuously been placed in impossible situations. But this, this is different. She could offer up a sultry reply and they’d still be safe, mostly. Treading where things are shaky but not quite in a free fall. To just get up and go to her, to give in to what she wants, that would be the complete and total plummet. She wants so badly to fall and still be caught. She hopes they have a safety net."Jane & Claire





	Normalcy

A/N: I adore this show but I’d be fooling myself to think I can write or understand any sort of political plot line so instead, I stuck to what I know best. Patricia Clarkson is such a brilliant actress and I think Jane is a fascinating character so I wanted to explore her a little more. Leave kudos and comments to let me know if you’d like to see more of these two from me.  
—

Jane Davis has a difficult time recalling normalcy.

Though the word makes her chuckle, a deep, throaty sound and question what it even means, she knows that by most definitions, she has no semblance of it. Sure, she’s adapted. Her day to day life, the travel, the conversations in stairwells, the phone calls in languages she didn’t know existed as a child, the whiskey with men who talk business and look at her like anything but- it’s her normalcy. But it’s no Sunday morning at the grocery store, it’s not 15 minutes in line at the car wash or playing in the park with children, hell, even grandchildren. Things she’s come to equate with average, everything she is not.

She’s driven around in the back of a black car with tinted windows, a spectator of the ordinary. She focuses on a woman who could be her age. She’s wearing athletic pants; a pair similar to one Jane knows sit in the bottom of a drawer in the apartment she barely sets foot in. The woman is walking a dog, carrying a coffee that is neither instant nor black; it’s foamy and pumped full of something sweet. She’s taking her time, looking at the trees that seem, suddenly, to be changing colour. Jane notes that she’s in good shape and think’s that it’s probably due to well-planned meals and regularly attended Pilate’s classes rather than a body that’s just adjusted to too little sleep, constant movement and an erratic schedule that calls for a less then substantial diet. She sips her instant coffee and thinks about a time where she cooked for herself. When was the last?

She thinks of Claire. Wonders if she ever thinks about what it might be like to cook a meal, walk a dog, wash a car. Jane was actually a fairly good cook at one point. When she was in the beginning of her career, a little less tired, a lot less in demand, she took pride in learning about the cultures of the countries she landed herself in. A large part of that centred around cuisine. And it was something she could take home with her, the ability to prepare a dish like the one she’d had in the back of a restaurant here or in the office of this person there. She thinks that if she opened her cupboard now she may not even have all the necessary seasonings for a decent chicken.

When it’s hours later and she’s seated on a couch across from President, reading over a paper while the other woman finishes a phone call, the thought pops up again. She crosses one leg over the over, lets the paper fall to her side and speaks up when Claire puts the phone down.

“When was the last time you cooked for yourself?”  

Claire, used to these small idiosyncrasies and Jane’s way of flipping from one thought to the next with seemingly no pattern, just lowers her glasses and purses her lips in thought.

“You know… I’m not sure.”

“You have a fully operational kitchen,” Jane offers but it’s neither a question or a statement. Just a thought with one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Well,” Claire starts with a small smile, “I guess as Francis says, I have to be conscious of where and what my energy goes to. Cooking isn’t one of those things.”

At that, they both silently return to their work and Jane imagines a life where she is allowed to suggest that they spend an evening cooking a meal. Where one of them has a place and both of them have the time to show up, casually, with a bottle of wine and that small, excited desire of wading into new territory. She considers what would happen if she was able to do more than make a small, vague confession over coffee one morning, “I like being around you.” But she knows it’s not possible. She’d realized long ago that as tempting as it is to mix business with pleasure when business is your entire life, it almost always ends in flames. So while she thinks about Claire, admits to herself on late, lonely, hotel nights that she wants to touch her, she does a damn good job of keeping herself in check.

Claire doesn’t make it easy. She is ambiguous, obscure. She makes it impossible for Jane to know if she’s experiencing something completely one sided. Only being mildly entertained but mostly ignored, just appeased enough to continue a working relationship because she is beneficial to the President. Jane couldn’t begin to hypothesize if Claire would lean in to her touch or recoil. On the days that she think it’s the former she reminds herself that she is an intelligent woman and that she too has allowed people an inch too close when it served her right. On the nights that she thinks it, she’ll allow herself for a moment to indulge in the idea of the delicate, purposeful hands of the other woman on her body.  
●  
It’s 2:35am when she gets the call. She’s needed in the Madame Presidents office, her connections are the only thing that will give them the insight they need into a recent move by ICO. She needs to get there as soon as she can. She’d fallen asleep a little over 3 hours earlier right after showering, something she really only does in the morning. Looking in the mirror, her blonde hair is mostly straight and limp with just the slightest wave, signature curls nowhere to be seen and no remnants of the former day’s makeup on her face. She looks old. Tired and unpresentable in a way she’s never allowed herself to be around the president. But there isn’t any time, the car is going to arrive in moments. She has just enough time for scarce makeup, enough to get by. The hair stays. And she kicks herself the entire car ride for caring.

It’s a strange rush that she never quite gets over, being escorted through the quiet darkness of the night, quickly into the White House. It could happen every month for the next 15 years, Jane thinks, and she’d still feel the adrenaline which she reasons could be from lack of sleep. She’s so caught up in briefing herself on what’s happened in the last few hours that she almost forgets how she looks when she steps into the room and surveys the looks of those around them. Tired and anxious. Even Claire, glasses perched high with little makeup on looks worn.

“Jane,” Claire breathes and she thinks she hears relief, “Thank you for coming. We’re so sorry to have woken you in the night like this.”

“Of course,” Jane nods.

Then, it’s business. Hair, makeup, glasses and crumpled clothing have no place in the mind of those babysitting the evils of a nation. It’s hours and it’s exhausting, making decisions that no one wants to make and phone calls that should never be recorded. It’s a day in their life. Some sort of twisted normalcy. When it’s over and there’s nothing left to do but wait, it’s nearing breakfast anyway. Claire asks Jane to escort her to the kitchen for breakfast and further conversation on her next move.

There’s fresh fruit, croissants and yogurt waiting for them. Jane is thankful for anything but secretly wishes for a meal from her childhood. Fried eggs, sausage, biscuits and gravy. It’s in the late nights and the phone calls that she doesn’t want to make to connections she feels she’s tapped one too many times that she craves the comforts of a life she once had. But she sits and she eats, feeling the thoughts of anything but Claire and ICO slip away. She’s focused until they’ve said all they need to say, quietly picking at what is left on the table.

“You’re hair,” Claire says, breaking the silence and Jane looks up to meet her eyes.

“Oh, yes. I didn’t have time to fix it.” She’s tempted to push a strand behind her ear.

“I like it, actually.” And in a rare moment of openness, she continues, “I get so used to seeing everyone at their finest, it’s nice to be reminded that we’re all just people.” Even though she says it in her formal sort of way that makes it feel as if Claire is anything but “just people” she can tell she means it.

She too understands that there is a normalcy they will never have.  
●

When Jane arrives in the oval office, some weeks later after being abroad, she is surprised to feel a coldness from Claire. While she’d never been called warm or particularly affectionate by any member of her staff, Jane had always felt she was an exception to many of Claire’s rules. She knew she was treated differently, held a little closer, shown a little more. But on this day, after not having shared an office or a breakfast in nearly a month, she feels slighted.

When the office clears of everyone but the two of them and Claire’s eyes go back to the papers on her desk, Jane stands firmly in front of it. She crosses her arms and a small, waiting smile rests on her face. When Claire finally looks up, Jane raises her eyebrows a little.

“Is there a problem Madame President?”

“Of course not, Miss. Davis.”

“Oh,” Jane draws out, long and hard, “’Miss Davis’? This feels like when my mother would use my middle name when I didn’t do my chores.” She is trying to be light.

“That’s not my intention. And I believe all your “chores” have been completed.”

“So that’s it then?” Jane asks, clapping her hands lightly against her thighs.

“That’s it,” Claire states with a smile that is both camera ready and insincere, “I imagine you’re tired after your travels, you should be home to rest.”

There’s a beat as they look at each other and Jane finally asks, “Is that what this is about?”

Before Claire can even answer, Jane feels a thrill run through her. She wonders how she got here, stood before the president with enough conviction and what she believes is a solid enough relationship that she can get away with questioning her.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to,” Claire says, laying her glasses on the desk.

“This… façade.” She says with the wave of a hand, “I don’t presume to know that I see and understand everything, Madame President, but I do know you well enough to grasp that something isn’t right. You know that my only role here is to help you so if you feel I’ve done something wrong, I’d like to know.”

“If your only role here is to help me, Miss. Davis, then where have you been?”

And while Jane assumes that’s the reason behind Claire’s charade, she doesn’t expect to hear it.

“I’m often of better use to you out of the country than I am in the country.”

“How can that be true?”

Jane almost shakes her head in disbelief, “You know how, Claire.”

There’s a moment before Claire speaks resolutely, “I do.”

They stay like that, Claire sitting with her blue eyes trained on Jane's hazel before the older woman steps forward, as close as she can to the desk, settling her palms on the edge, fingers curling to grasp it.

“If you’d like to see me for an evening, you just have to ask.”

Jane notices Claire swallow, the hollow of her throat wavering in a way that has always made Jane feel flushed. The president nods curtly and Jane turns, walks herself out of the oval office.  
●  
It’s only two days later, which Jane doesn’t expect. They’ve just finished a meeting and she’s about to see herself out when she’s asked to stop by the president’s office. The door is held for her and she steps in, noticing first that Claire is in light blue which Jane has come to believe is the most striking colour on her. She turns to her and Jane almost laughs at her calculated, easy smile- a dichotomy, she knows. But Claire has always been like that, giving as much as she can of her genuine person while still heavily guarded. She reasons that at this point, Claire may not even know another way. That even her truest moments are somehow tainted by the veil she’s been forced to wear in a life where she's constantly had to be better, be more.

“Jane,” she breathes in a way that has always made the older woman feel like a breath of fresh air and crosses the room toward her.

“Claire, your dress is stunning.”

“Oh,” Claire says, eyes remaining steady, never one to be disarmed, “thank you.”

“So, how can I serve you today, Madame President?” Jane asks, the ever present mischievous gleam in her eye.

“Dinner.”

Claire’s hands are folded in front of her, no hint of nervousness or anything outside of her regular, calm exterior.

“Of course. And should I bring anything? We’ll have to go over-“

“No, I just mean dinner.”

“I’ll be in meetings until 7.”

“And I, until 7:30. 8pm?”

“The executive suite?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you then.”

They both smile. Jane feels Claires eyes on her as she turns and strides out of the office, hips swaying a little more purposefully than before.  
●  
Jane doesn’t have meetings until 7. In fact, it’s her first “free” evening in nearing three weeks but she knows she’ll want some time. For something that’d been coined “just dinner,” she felt a heavy implication. A need to do something that would set this apart from the rest of their daily customs. So Jane showers and instead of a curling iron, takes a straightener to her gold locks. She scours the closet and finds black dress pants that are nearly spandex, tight and form fitting. Her maroon blouse has a deep V that almost, from the right angle, allows a person to see the black lace of her bra. She surveys herself in the mirror. It’s good, she thinks. Casual in a way that Claire had never been privy too. Formal enough to be respected. Perhaps adored. 

No one really knows this but most of Jane’s relationships, meaningful and otherwise in the last 15 years had been with women. They were few and far between but she was still a woman at her core, who wanted and desired and had her own moments of sensuality. She knew it wasn’t overlooked. It had served her well in her career to be a woman that, while not all politicians with wives basically paid to be on their arms liked to admit, was seen as attractive. For that reason, she kept her personal life away from the eyes of those in her professional. Attending every event alone even when she didn’t have to and charmingly avoiding questions about why there was no ring on her left finger. Beautiful, smart, quirky but funny Jane Davis- how was she still available? These people had no idea.  

Claire had never asked her any of these questions. She imagines it’s not due to lack of interest but rather that the moment was never right. It’s a hard transition to go from scanning photos of children injured by bombs in the street to questioning what a person does to have their needs met in their spare time. She knows that if Claire was to ask her tonight, she would tell her all of this and more. Its not that Jane couldn’t be open when she wanted to be, she was just… strategic. She only revealed what was necessary, if it was necessary and kept the rest close. She imagines that when looked in the eye, she’d tell Claire whatever she wanted to hear.

When she arrives at the executive suite, she’s chuckling lowly as she slips in the door. It’s not exactly nerves but its something, a feeling low in her stomach that makes her feel as if she is exactly where she needs to be. Her eyes scan over Claire who opted for a similar feel. Her hair and makeup remains the same from the day but her pants now are tight and black, her shirt is fitted, a crisp white. She is a vision unlike anything Jane has encountered. And it’s a feeling that she never allows to be lost on her, not in all the months, in the late night meetings and secret conversations. She makes sure to appreciate it as often as she can, as appropriately as she can manage. 

“Just people, after all,” Jane smiles, motioning between them. 

“Yes, we are. And tonight we’re going to take advantage of that.”

It feels out of character to Jane for Claire to indulge in this rare moment of free time together. Not just to execute it but to recognize it. For a woman who is fearless, she keeps her walls as high as she can and Jane knows that doesn’t always allow for the easiest conversations, the simplest admissions or frank moments of tenderness. But here they are, sharing garden salads and tenderloin, wine in crystal glasses and conversation that has nothing to do with ICO and Claire is managing it. She wants this, Jane thinks, she needs this just as badly as I’ve been pretending I don’t.

“So, Jane Davis,” Claire begins as she tucks her knuckles under her chin, eyes deep and soft, teetering over the edge of tipsy, “why are you here on your free night?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I have to be here but you, you don’t. Yet you are. You’re always here.”

“I seem to remember a time where I wasn’t always here and it didn’t seem to go over too well.” Jane picks up her glass, puts it to her lips and never once tears her eyes away from Claires. 

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to apologize for that day. The way I acted, it was inappropriate and unfair to you. I-“

“Claire?” Jane cuts her off and finds that her hand is gently laying over the presidents wrist where it lies on the table, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Apologize. Make excuses. Despite popular belief, mostly amongst yourself, you’re allowed to have an off day.” Claire looks as if she is about to disagree but she bows her head, a small thankful nod and Jane continues, “And you already know what I said. I like you,” her thumb rubs in slow circles over the other woman’s wrist, “I like being around you. You’re allowed to say the same. It’s doesn’t change anything.” 

“It doesn’t?”

“It doesn’t have to.” 

“And what if I’d like it to?”  
Jane realizes then that she is not looking at the president. She had been staring at where their skin met, her fingers nearly encircling Claire’s wrist. She tears her gaze away and meets the other woman's stare. As always, she looks sure of herself. Confident in the way she speaks although what she is suggesting seems to be the most uncertain thing in either of their worlds. The only thing they’ve danced around, rather than strutting directly into.  
“You say that as if it’s a challenge, Madame President.”

“It feels as if most things have been with you,” Claire slips her hand out from under Jane’s light grasp and places it over top of her hand, “you’ve been a unique challenge from the moment I met you.”

“As have you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s incredibly challenging not to touch you when I’m around you.”

At that, they both nearly laugh. The room is thick with a tension that neither knows exactly what to do with, toeing an invisible line with no coach coaxing them to the other side. 

“I’d like to touch you,” Claire finally says. 

Jane Davis never really loses her ability to speak. It’s something you get over when you’ve continuously been placed in impossible situations. But this, this is different. She could offer up a sultry reply and they’d still be safe, mostly. Treading where things are shaky but not quite in a free fall. To just get up and go to her, to give in to what she wants, that would be the complete and total plummet. She wants so badly to fall and still be caught. She hopes they have a safety net.

Jane pushes her chair back from the table and stands up. Claire watches her, eyes reading both intrigued and lustful. Instead of extending a hand to her or dropping herself into the lap of the president, Jane slowly makes her way to the island and turns. Anything else feels juvenile, too easy. The cold marble cuts into her back as her fingers curl around the edge. Her right leg crosses over the left and her eyes meet Claire’s, nearly hooded.

“I’d like you to.”

Claire moves from her chair and while it’s not hesitant, it’s slow. The way she puts one foot in front of the other is so purposeful, Jane think she’s never made a career move that was so deliberate. It takes everything in the older woman to remain still and calm, one eyebrow slightly raised as if a challenge still lingers between them. When she is finally just an inch away, she is surprised by Claire’s first move. She takes a hand and gently pushes the strands that frame her face behind her ear.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Claire’s voice is nearly a whisper, “I like that I’m the only one whose seen you this way.” Her hands come to rest firmly against Jane’s hips.

Jane reaches for the wrists at her sides and is surprised that Claire lets her adjust her grasp. She’s always imagined her as the ultimate dominator, a woman you allow to touch you, not a woman who seeks your touch. But she doesn’t so much as flinch as Jane pulls her hands closer, around her back, closing the space between them until their hips are nearly touching. She allows her hands to run up her forearms and towards her shoulders. While she’d always thought of this moment as fiery and a little rough, she takes  Claire’s face between her hands and it’s nothing but tender as she forces the other woman to meet her eyes.

“I know you did. You’re the only person I’ve been looking at for months. I notice everything that you notice.”

She thinks about saying more but before she can, Claires mouth is over hers. She wonders, instantly, why the brain short circuits in the moment that you’re experiencing the one thing thats consumed your thoughts for so long. The air seems to swirl around her in a completely different way. Electric. It takes her more than a moment to catch up to reality and the soft lips are already leaving hers, a little unsure. So she reaches a hand up quickly, cups the back of the presidents head and brings her back down. Claires hands leave her hips and are suddenly on either side of her face, bringing her impossibly close, breathing her in. The island is still cutting into her back but she tries to push the thoughts away as the woman in front of her presses completely into her, grasping at her hips once again. 

She’d never imagine that Claire Underwood does anything desperately. But the fingers that press into her sides are telling her something else completely. The mere thought that this woman, calm and ever graceful, could come undone before her sends a serge between her legs and prompts Jane to trail her tongue over the presidents bottom lip. The small shock as their tongues meet distracts Claire just enough that Jane is able to step into control, turning them around and forcing Claire up against the island. 

“Jane” Claire breaths against her lips, “not here.”

“Why?”

“Someone could come in at any moment.”

“Let them.” Jane mutters as she finally presses her mouth against Claires neck, on the pulse just below her jaw. Her hands glide lightly against her stomach and around her back, gently cupping her sculpted runners backside. “I’ve thought about you laid out on this island for far too long to let it go to waste.”

The sentence stops Claires protests dead in her tracks. They both know that this isn’t just as simple as two people who desire, who crave each other, giving into temptation in a kitchen after a little too much wine. They’re smarter than that. But for now, they’ll pretend. For the evening, they’ll let this be their normalcy. They are just people after all.  
 


End file.
